Haus of War
by DreamTailor
Summary: John is sent overseas to Italy to serve in World War II. There he meets Sherlock, a Nazi intelligence officer, who is taken as a prisoner of war.
1. Chapter 1

**Haus of War.**

July 10th, 1943.

Captain John Watson of the XXX Corps shouldered his medical bag and drew his limbs closer to his body as the armoured boat rocked upon the grey waters. The seawater accumulating in the bottom of the vessel was beginning to soak through his trousers, the smell of fishy saltwater mixing with that of sweat and fear. At least twenty men sat huddled together, brimmed helmets obscuring everything except the metal walls of the boat and a thin strip of the churning sulphuric sky. Over the sound of waves, distance cracks and booms of artillery echoed into the night. Rain began to spot the thick, scratchy fabric of their uniforms.

Lt. General Leese rose to his knees, careful not to expose his head over the rim of the boat, and roared over the ever increasing noise, "We're landing at the shores of Pachino in five minutes men! Operation Husky will commence!" Leese was interrupted as a shrill deafened them and a shell impacted with the water not three feet from the boat, sending a crescendo of water and debris crashing over their heads. John blinked away the droplets from his eyes as he struggled to hear the rest of Leese's pep talk.

"Once this boat lands," Leese continued, voice growing gravely and hoarse from shouting, "advance up the beach to the checkpoint. No one stays behind! Take out as many as you can, then clear the buildings."

John looked around the boat to the other soldiers, their eyes bulging and breath mixing with the air in white clouds. His own heart hammered hard against his ribcage. A bullet ricocheted off the side of the vessel with an ugly twang, and every head snapped toward the sound. If the water filling the bottom of the boat did not drown them, the tension would.

The boat jolted and lurched unevenly as the hull scraped against sand and stone, signalling their landing. The protective metal door slid open and landed with a bang on the ground, revealing the battleground for the first time.

"Move! Move! Move!" Leese screeched, the power of his words like whips at their heels, sending the reluctant soldiers sprinting into the chaos.

John shot to his feet, running awkwardly with the large bag bouncing against his back and the rifle balanced in his arms. Faster men had already slid behind shelter. The singing artillery shot past him as he ran. Sweat mingled with rainwater as it dripped off his nose, eyes straining to calculate all the motion around him- screams, people dropping to the ground, the adrenaline coursing through him made everything blur. John barely had time to register the body he leapt over, or that he recognised the face. Finally reaching a barricade, he slid down into it, helmet askew on top of his ashen face. A shell hit the sand twenty meters away, and John felt the shockwave ripple beneath him. He waited and listened.

"Medic!" someone screamed, "Medic!"

John flipped to his stomach and crawled toward the screaming soldier. He couldn't count how many times he had done this: crawling out into the open, bullets flying past him or hitting the ground near him in an explosion of dust, the smell of iron blood close to his face. There was nothing more thrilling.

As he neared the source of the desperate cries, he could see the red blood soaking into the sand. A young boy kneeled behind the barracks, cradling the head of another. The boy raised his tear streaked face, dirty and flushed red.

"Please, you gotta help him."

A young Canadian, distinguished by the vertical bar of red shining from beneath the mud and grit caked on his uniform.

John looked at the fallen boy, jugular ripped clean through by a bullet. His brown, doe-like eyes stared skyward as he choked on clotted, black blood. He had seconds. Instead, John focused on the pleading Canadian boy. His arm was torn up, but obviously forgotten in the other soldier's peril.

"What's your name?" John asked over the gunfire, pushing the boy back and away from the dead man.

The boy babbled before spitting out, "Private Walliams, what about-"

"Forget him," John said as he wrapped the boys arm. "Can you hold a gun?"

The boy nodded frantically, terror racking his thin frame.

"Then keep moving! Onward, son!"

Such was war.

John pushed forward, deeper into enemy territory, diving into ditches and squirming toward the constant summons of the wounded. He frantically dressed their wounds and then pushed the terrified men back on to the battlefield. Some were beyond his help, and were given the privilege to lie were they had fallen. But being a higher ranking officer, John could not show his fear, which was as real as the others he pushed them all further into the madness. He showed no pity to the dying boys, barely of age, or to those too terrified to continue. They needed to be strong and relentless. Kindness did not win wars.

"Captain!" a voice called out.

John turned to the shout, only to find a man in an Italian uniform standing over his prone body, bayonet pointed down between his shoulder blades. John felt panic take him and he struck out, knocking the weapon to the side as it discharged into the bloody sand beside him. Relying purely on training, John flipped and swung his own rifle up and blindly fired. The projectile punched a hole through his assailant's chest and out the other side. John looked up into the eyes of the man, wide with shock and pain as he leaned forward and effectively impaled himself on the blade end of John's rifle. A few drops of blood dripped onto John's cheek before gravity took the body the rest of the way down, landing spread-eagle beside him.

Working the blade out of cartilage and bone, John quickly scooted back into the shelter of a barricade and removed himself from the line of fire. Drawing out his canteen and taking a mouthful of stale, metallic water, he tried to purge the memory from his mind. He had seen worse.

He flinched as the buzz of aeroplane engines sailed over top of his head.

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><p>.<p>

After a few hours, the gunfire had ceased, save for a quick rat-tat-tat of the 'clean up' crew. John worked his way around the blackened beach with a few other soldiers, carefully stepping over bodies and wreckage. They collected dog tags and made a list of the fallen, while the wounded were hoisted back to camp by his assistants.

The sand around the beach smoked as gulls began to settle among the carnage.

.

"Alright corporal, I need you to take a deep breath for me," John said in a soothing voice to the writhing figure below him. Two other medics pinned his arms and legs down, but the man's struggles still made the extraction of a splint of wood embedded in his calf difficult. He wouldn't take the whiskey they'd offered him.

"I'll pull on the count of three…one…" He yanked, the fragment sliding out much smoother than he had expected. The corporal's eyes rolled back as he caught sight of the bloodied splint.

The entrance of the hastily erected medical tent was pulled open, and Lieutenant Gregson, from an Allied American division, stepped inside.

"Captain Watson," he greeted with a salute, "Lieutenant General Leese requires your presence at the check point, sir."

"Concerning what?" John asked, not taking his eye away from his current patient.

"Medical treatment, sir"

"He's hurt?"

"No sir, it's considering the wellbeing of a prisoner."

This caught John's attention. Rarely was he called to examine an enemy personal. They usually weren't alive by the time he got there.

"Who have they captured?" John asked, leaving the other medics to finish dressing the corporal's wound.

"I don't know much more than that sir, I've just been asked to lead you there."

Dusting off his trousers, John stood and followed the lieutenant out into the crisp night air. They walked by lantern light up the beach until they reached a street lined with white buildings, plaster walls cracked and crumbling. In the building directly at the end of the rugged road a few soft lights twinkled faintly in the windows. Unsurprisingly, the lieutenant led John straight its door.

"Captain Watson has arrived sir," the lieutenant quipped as he pushed open the door.

John stepped into the dimly lit room and quickly scanned its occupants. Lt Gen. Leese stood with another higher ranking officer whom he did not know. Between the two men sat a third on a dirty cot, dressed in an SS uniform. The rank on his shoulder boasted the insignia of a senior assault leader, the alarmingly red armband his allegiance. The man wasn't young, but wasn't old either. John placed him in his early to mid-thirties, but it was difficult to be certain due to the gag and blindfold wrapped around his bony, drawn face. His hat had been knocked to the floor, revealing a shock of dark hair, shorn at the sides but a bit longer on the top, the locks' ends hinting of loose curls. His hands were bound with what looked like a strip of the bed sheet.

"Ah captain, glad you could make it," Leese said, sucking the last drag of a cigarette before stomping it into the concrete floor.

"He requires medical attention, sir?" John asked, standing at ease but with his spine rigid, intimidated slightly by the larger men.

"Yes, I found this spineless git hiding in here. He surrendered immediately, but I gave him a kick for his cowardly conduct." The SS officer stifled out a low growl, but Lt General Leese ignored it. "I need you to check his ribs, I think they've broke."

"We're taking him as a prisoner of war then, sir?" John asked as he knelt in front of the Nazi.

"I think we should just kill him now and save ourselves the trouble," grumbled the unknown man beside Leese. John was slightly inclined to agree with him; he saw no use in taking prisoners. He also couldn't say he had much forgiveness for anyone involved with the SS.

"If he was of lower rank, I would say the same," Leese agreed. John reached to unbutton the black jacket and inspect the injury, but the man flinched, violently pulling away.

"Steady," John warned, and unfastened the stiff buttons.

"However, considering his rank is not low, he may be some use for intelligence. Didn't your fathers ever tell you to milk the cow dry before selling it to market?"

John reached his hand inside the captive's jacket and tested the pressure on his ribs. It was easy to find the break as the man's ribs jutted pitifully from his skin. The man hissed though his nose as he touched the spot with cool hands. Lifting up the man's undershirt, John examined the damage. A darkening bruise spread across the bony valleys of his chest like an infection, but the bruise wasn't split. It seemed a cracked rib was the worst damage done.

"I can patch it up when we get back to camp, it isn't serious enough to need immediate first aid," John diagnosed, re-buttoning the man's shirt and jacket.

"As I suspected," Leese sighed, sounding very tired. "Colonel Dimmock, run back to camp and have a separate tent set up with two sentries posted, then send a message to headquarters. We'll follow behind."

Colonel Dimmock saluted and walked out briskly.

"Captain Watson, if you would be so kind," he gestured toward the man.

John slid his arm around the man's thin waist, admittedly not as concerned as he should have been for the man's injury, and hoisted him to his feet. The man grunted, and took a few cautious steps as John led him forward, unsure of his footing while blindfolded.

The SS officer fidgeted slightly as they slowly made their way back to camp, but not in order to pull away and escape, rather, he shied away from John's touch like it burned him. John responded to this by wrapping his hand tighter as he steered him around a rather large rock lying on the path. A deep part of him wanted to feel a bit of sympathy for the fellow, being paraded like a wild animal, but he promptly pushed the absurd idea away.

Soldiers meandering around fires and tents turned and stared as John walked into camp, supporting the captive. A few rude remarks were shouted into the air by some more ambitious young men, others looking like they needed to be restrained in the sight of an enemy. John swore he heard a catcall followed by low chuckles, but ignored them, and instead fixed his eyes on the newly erected tent. One of the sentries positioned in front of the tent stepped aside and opened the flap to receive them.

Once inside, John lowered the man on to the thin cot leaving him bound as he had his medical supplies sent for by a sentry. In only a few moments the guard had returned, handing the bag to John and casting an odd look at the SS officer sitting on the bed.

"Thank you, you may leave now," Leese said, and ushered the guard out the door. Before turning to follow, he said to John in a stern but assuring voice, "Leave him bound, if you would. I'll be back around in an hour." John nodded, and the Lt General disappeared into the camp.

He was alone.

For a few moments he sat in silence with the SS officer, casually observing him. He had never been up close and personal with a Nazi, at least not a live one. Also, John had never interacted with a prisoner of war before. He didn't know if he should try to talk with him, or just give him the silent treatment as he wrapped his ribs. Hell, he didn't even know if the man spoke English. Perhaps initialing conversation wasn't the greatest idea. But still…

He began to draw out various supplies- gauze, scissors, tape - and set them on the floor beside him. He moved to undo the man's jacket and shirt, and was once again met with a flinch. The man muffled something past the cloth stuffed into his mouth, but all John could hear was ridiculous, guttural sounds. For a moment, he feared the man might choke, and he didn't want to have to explain that situation to the Lt General. Hesitantly, John reached up to the knot tied at the back of the man's neck. He was curious, and perhaps it wouldn't hurt to know if the man spoke his language or not.

He untied the knot, but before pulling the cloth away, he said calmly into the man's ear, "If you scream I'll shove this straight back into your mouth, alright." Despite the lack of response, he unwound the gag and pulled it away, revealing the man's full lips. The man took a few much needed, deep breaths. Other than that, he didn't say a word.

"Now," John said as he threw the offending cloth beside him to the cot, "what were you trying to say?"

"Don't touch me."

John felt his inside turn cold. The man's remark took him a bit by surprise, and he quashed the urge to shove the cloth back down the man's throat. His voice was deep, and considerably powerful, a voice that did not quite match his lanky frame. It seemed to echo in his ears a few seconds longer than it should have, uninviting and icy. His accent also caught John off-guard. While it had a crisp, throaty enunciation, it held a very light German accent, almost as if the man had been speaking English for a long time.

"Glad to see we can understand each other," John said, still unsure of why he was trying to engage in small talk. It made him rethink how lonely he might actually be getting. He attempted once again to open the man's jacket, and again the man pulled away from his touch.

"I said-" the man began, before John, frustrated with the man's immaturity, seized his jacket by the lapels and pulled him closer.

"Stop being such a child," he scolded the man, "I can choose not to help you, you know."

This seemed to produce results, as the man stopped squirming, and instead settle for setting him mouth in a thin, tight line. John could handle that at least.

"Is everything alright in there, sir?" one of the sentries called from the tent entrance.

"Yes, just fine thank you," he called back. Then, "actually, could you bring me a mug of tea?"

"Yes sir." He heard footsteps walking away.

John made quick work of the man's jacket and uniform top, draping them over the edge of the cot, leaving him shivering in his undershirt. John began to lift that up to, when the man suddenly let out a hiss.

"Oh come now, I didn't even press hard."

"No," he said, wiggling a bit where he sat. "Your fingers are cold."

John rolled his eyes and furrowed his brow; he was momentarily glad the man could not see him. It was like dealing with a five year old who couldn't keep still.

"Sir, your tea," the sentry announced on his return, handing the steaming cup to John.

"Thanks mate."

John held on to the mug for a few moments, staring into the dark liquid. For some reason it felt genuinely good to have even the smallest of comforts in such an uncomfortable situation. He took a sip, careful not to scald the roof of his mouth, before he resumed trying to wrap the man's ribs. He pressed the gauze to the bruised area and wrapped around once, before looking up into the man's face. He was sitting perfectly still.

Suddenly, "Thank you."

"Thank you?" John asked, as he wrapped the gauze around a second time. "Thank you for what?"

"You warmed up your hands."

"Oh," John said simply.

They sat in awkward silence as John finished. The man's face was set into a grimace; obviously the pain of a broken rib was bothering him. John rummaged through his bag and pulled out a bottle of standard issue painkillers. Four tablets remain in the bottle. He couldn't spare them. In fact, he wouldn't spare them.

"Now is your chance to tell me if anything else is hurting," John said, dropping the bottle back into the bag. The man just sat silently.

John began to pack his things, and stood, retrieving the gag.

"I'm going to have to put this back on. I wasn't supposed to remove it in the first place." As soon as the cloth touched the man's mouth, he drew back.

"Wait."

John quirked an eyebrow, but obliged him.

"The other man… he said your name was Watson?"

John hesitated, part of him felt wary about confirming the fact. "Yes."

The man's mouth tugged slightly upward.

"The name is Sherlock. Sherlock Haus."

John felt something drop inside him. He felt confused, unsure, and incredibly put off. It felt wrong for his enemy to be talking to him; it felt wrong for him to be talking as he had to the enemy. John, now contemplating the past quarter of an hour, realised that without intending to, he had softened, shown weakness, considered compassion. And that scared him. Surely this man was trying to lure him into something, and John would not have it.

"Captain Watson, are you all finished with him?" Lt General Leese's voice asked as he stood just outside the tent's entrance. John visibly jumped, and hastily shoved the rag back into Sherlock's mouth, who struggled and gagged as he was taken by surprise. He quickly tied the knot tightly at the nape of his neck, grateful to have their short conversation put to an end.

"Yes! Yes, come in," John called out a bit too loudly, struggling to keep in voice in control as his heart raced. He disregarded the uniform shirt, and merely threw the black SS jacket across the man's shoulders. John turned to face his superior, tripping lightly over his booted feet. His face was flushed as he saluted, painfully aware of the man's wheezing breaths filling the silence as he adjusted to breathing through his nose again.

"At ease," Lt General Leese ordered, eying him suspiciously. John lowered his hand, but certainly wasn't at ease. "You're free to leave now," he said. John nodded and strode past Leese, but was stopped as his hand came down heavy upon John's shoulder.

"Don't worry, I won't discipline you for roughing him up a bit," Leese whispered, throwing in a wink.

John resisted the urge to smack his hand to his forehead, and simply walked out of the tent into the dry night air.

* * *

><p><strong>A<strong>**uthor's Note**

_Haus_ - German for Home, an obvious reference to Holmes. Many of the German sided characters will have their names roughly translated into German.

_Operation Husky_ – British, American and Canadians' efforts to take back Sicily from the Axiz. Lt General Leese was the commander at the time.

_XXX Corps_ – British infantry, part of the eighth army division. The story will follow the squadron.

Thanks for reading; this may turn out to be a huge story if I stick with it. Also, I'm no war historian, (hell I'm not even British), but I'm trying to make it as historically accurate as possible. Excuse any errors.


	2. Chapter 2

Haus of War

Chapter 2

John didn't sleep well that evening, the little hours of the night he had left were spent tossing and turning, mulling over thoughts that had no right to be bothering him. He stared, wide awake, at the canvas roof of his tent for an hour before he rolled out of his sleeping bag and retrieved his bag. Rummaging around inside of it, he pulled out a small book.

The book was worn, its leather cover frayed and torn around the sharp edges. A zipper sealed the pages, protecting them from water when it rained. Unzipping the book revealed pages upon pages of quick, scratchy writing. Half of the pages in the book remained untouched however, as John had yet to record his thoughts in them. He wasn't necessarily a writer by nature, but his father had given him the journal before he had been drafted into the army.

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* * *

><p>.<p>

It was back in London, where John had worked as a family doctor. His father had started the clinic, and had looked over a handful of patients and their families for years before he retired and passed the business on to John, who was fresh from medical school. For five years John had run the clinic with two assistants, and while the clinic was never too busy to need more than two assistants, it was a homely and fitful job, one John quite enjoyed.

Then, four years earlier, the war started.

At first, the war effort in England hadn't been too serious. While many young lads signed to the reserves, dreaming of adventure, John was content with working in the small clinic. Every month he would see the parade of soldiers walk past the shop, flags rising high as the boys were shipped overseas, but no urge ever swept him after seeing the patriotic display to take up arms and fight for his country.

It wasn't until nearly a year later, when the streets were consumed with fire, that John received his conscription for the war. It was late in the afternoon, and he was examining a woman who had a horribly persistent and ragged cough. John had been inspecting her windpipe, talking to the woman about the rise in grocery prices, when they both halted their conversation and listened to a strange, high pitched whine.

"Is that your boiler, doctor?" the woman had asked.

John had opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off as he was nearly deafened by a momentous explosion. He remembered being knocked off his feet, the woman he had been examining shrieking as she clutched the bed. The windows shattered and rained glass upon them, letting the sound of people crying in the streets pour into the room. Over the panic in the streets, he heard the roar of aeroplane engines as they streaked across the blue. Dull thuds echoed across the metropolis as bombs dropped from the sky, destroying buildings, cratering the cobbled streets, and setting fire to the rooftops.

"Run home," he hastily instructed the woman, pulling her from the bed and handing her shawl back. "Lock your doors and windows and stay hidden. Do you have a cellar?"

She nodded, frightened eyes filling with tears.

"Get your family and go there, stay covered."

John led the woman to the street and watched her run in the opposite direction. Grabbing his cap he pulled the clinic doors shut and locked them, pocketing the key. Another bomb dropped on a city block near him, and he watched as concrete, wood and steel flew into the air in a ball of red fire, the buildings insides gutted in seconds by the flames. Planes whined overhead, leaving streaks of cloud and steam behind them. John moved toward the wreckage, pushing against the swarms of terrified people trying to find shelter. His father lived two blocks away, the first block nearly having been destroyed already. He didn't care that his clinic would probably suffer the same fate as many other buildings in the area, only that he reached his father's apartment, and that the apartment was still in one piece.

It took longer than John had wanted to reach the apartment, he had been roughly jostled as people pushed and shoved, and some shooting him odd looks as John moved into the chaos rather than away from it. When he had finally reached the intact building, he let out a sigh of relief. John raced up the flight of stairs and pounded on his father's door. He waited a few moments, agitated and preparing to break the door down when finally he heard the chain slide loose and the door creak open. Leading his poor old dad down the many flights of stairs, they took shelter in the basement with the other tenants in the complex.

Thankfully, the clinic had not been completely destroyed in the blitz. John couldn't do much for repairs, as money was tight and another bombing was imminent, so he boarded up the shattered windows and continued work. During the following days the clinic was the busiest it had ever been as people rushed the shop for medicine, supplies and treatment. During the night, however, an inky blackness settled over London. Lights and fires were extinguished as the citizens surrendered to the darkness. Curfews were enforced, and anyone found with a light twinkling in the dark was severely punished. Late at night John would listen to the planes as they flew overhead, and even though he was protected by the darkness, he could no longer sleep through the nights after the terror of the first wave of bombs.

It was only a couple of weeks after that John received a letter by courier. He knew what it was before he even opened it. His fist curled and uncurled by his side as he stared hard at the death sentence, folded neatly into a crisp, white envelope. He had shut down the clinic and walked to his see his father, who had since moved back into the apartment. Together they sat at the small kitchen table and opened the letter.

_John Hamish Watson is called to participate in the National Service overseas, _

_for Queen and Country, as is the duty of all capable British citizens. He is asked _

_to report to the central London recruitment office on December 12__th__, 1940._

_General Officer Commanding-in-Chief H. Alexander._

His father's face was pale, but he said nothing to comfort his son. They both knew that there was no escaping what was to come.

For the next several months John trained in Citizen's Military Training, before being assigned to Eighth Army's XXX Corps as a field medic. If there was one thing John could be happy about, it was that he could practice his doctoring on the field, and was not simply placed as a foot soldier.

After ending his training in early 1941, John traveled to Kings Cross station, which would whisk him away to be shipped over the channel. To his surprise, he met his father and sister, Harriet, on the platform. He had not seen Harriet in years, and was taken with her appearance, which had turned from youthful and wild to hardened and steely. His sister stood silently, dry tears tracked down her cheeks, flushed from either embarrassment or alcohol, which he could not tell. His father looked older too since he last saw him. He was more bent and leaned heavily on an oak cane. Any man could look at him and see the weight of the world on his shoulders as he said his last goodbye's to his only son.

"John," he had said quietly, and John found it hard to meet the man's eyes. John breathed heavily from his nose, relying on his training to keep his emotions under control. It was failing miserably.

"My boy, my handsome boy," his father said, a spark entering his gaze, and from his jacket he pulled out the leather journal. It was new, flawless, and the polished leather spoke of worth his father could not afford.

"Dad, oh no…" John breathed as he laid eyes upon it. His father held up a hand and stopped him before he could say any more.

"It is a gift from both of us," Harriet spoke up, her voice cracking in the pressure. She took the book and shoved it roughly into John's chest.

"John, I know you know this as well as we all do," his father said, an air of dignity surrounding him. "War is terrible, an atrocity, and it is a waste of human life. I cannot bear to see your life be wasted on the battlefield, like so many others. So please… for my sake and your sister's, write, John. Write about everything you do, your see, and you feel, so I may know… if the worst is to happen…that my son's life was not wasted. That you truly lived, and that your life was not thrown away, lost in history, but preserved so that I may show others…that I may show others that… you…_ lived_."

John embraced his father and sister for a long time before the train whistled its warning. Even then it was painful to tear himself away from them.

"And don't die, stupid," his sister choked and she punched him in the shoulder.

As the train rolled out of the station, and the faces of his family grew smaller and more far away, John laid his head in his hands and for the first time in a very long while, he wept.

But he kept his resolve to write. He recorded the day's activities every night by the gas light in his tent. In a world where he had to become hardened to everything and everyone around him, he poured all his emotion, all the tremors of his soul into the little leather book. He filled pages upon pages, being as descriptive as possible. Often times he would copy his entries upon paper and send them back to his father in the post. He would not be forgotten, even if his original book would be destroyed with him.

He would show his father that he had lived.

That he _was_ living.

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* * *

><p>.<p>

John had halfway finished penning his entry on the events of the day before when roll call sounded. Scrambling to his feet and shaking off his fatigues, he quickly dressed in his uniform and assembled with the other soldiers. Lt General Leese stood in front of the men to give the day's instructions.

"Breakfast will end at 07:00 hours. All officers are to report to be briefed at the main tent at 0:800 hours. Further instruction will be given then. Dismissed." John saluted with the rest of the men, and then dispersed with the crowd. It wasn't often that they had free time, even if it was only an hour in length.

John headed to the shoddy canteen that had been set up, grabbing a bowl and looking into the pot that the men in front of him had been drawing from. Inside a thick, grey porridge bubbled and spat. It was the most unappealing thing John had ever laid eyes on, and he was tempted to just skip breakfast that day. The cook, a meaty man with slicked back hair, watch him as he stood and looked into the pot with distaste. John looked up to notice the cook staring at him. John was holding up the line. This alone helped him resolve that he would skip breakfast, and had begun to walk away with the empty bowl when an arm suddenly wrapped around his.

"Tsk tsk, breakfast is the most important meal of the day. A doctor of all people should know that."

"'Morning Bill," John said as his bowl was taken from him and the soldier filled it to the brim with the gray slop. Bill Murray was a few ranks lower than John, but they dropped all military contexts when they were together. Bill had been one of John's acquaintances back in London, a friend of a friend to tell the truth. He had soon followed John with his own conscription into service, and was delighted when they were assigned to the same squadron. While they hadn't been considerably close before the war, after all they had gone through during their service, it was only natural that they had become close friends.

"This is war, John, everyone suffers," Bill smiled devilishly as he shoved the bowl back into John's hands and filled up his own. John felt queasy as he stared into his breakfast, waiting for a telltale eyeball to surface and stare back at him.

"You look green, you alright mate?" Bill teased him.

"Uh, let's go look at something nicer, shall we?"

They sat down on the beach, gazing at the blue Mediterranean Sea. Bill shoveled the porridge into his mouth as John picked at his own.

"I was starting to wonder if you made it through yesterday, I hadn't seen you," John broke the silence. Bill swallowed a mouthful of slop, then another before answering him.

"Yeah, it was rough. I got caught in a trench while some bloke shot rounds at me."

"I'm surprised he missed."

"Oi!" Bill laughed through a mouthful of food, setting his empty bowl down on the sand. "Doesn't matter, today will be a lot more relaxed."

"How so?" John asked.

"They got me on sentry duty for that Nazi-scum you dragged back to camp. I heard you were looking after him last night?"

"Oh…yeah. A couple broken ribs, nothing huge."

"Now correct me if I'm wrong, but one of the blokes on duty last night also told me you were talking to him too? Any juice?"

John froze, spoon halfway to his lips. Setting it back down, he thought for a moment. Bill took it as a sign that John didn't want to talk about it.

"Never mind," he said, "I got to get going anyways. Who knows, maybe I can chat with him too while I'm standing there. They might even give me a medal if I get anything interesting out of him."

Flashing John a smile, he headed back to camp, leaving him looking at the sea.

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* * *

><p>.<p>

After deciding he could stand no more of the porridge, John set back to his tent, intent on finishing his journal entry.

"Captain Watson!" He heard a very familiar, and at the moment, a very unwelcome voice call. John turned on his heel to see Lt General Leese beckoning him over. John did so, and was a bit frightened when Leese threw his arm around his shoulders and steered him away from his tent.

"Good morning, sir," he said formally as he was guided away from the bustle of soldiers.

"As to you. I was wondering if you could do something for me."

"What would that be sir?"

"The Humanitarian Act under the Geneva Convention strictly states that prisoners of war should be fed," he said, rolling his eyes as if the idea was completely ridiculous.

John wanted to groan, but held it in.

"Didn't he technically surrender?" John asked.

"Still a prisoner, dear captain, and will be treated as such." He cleared his throat and looked around him before continuing. "To be honest, we had a nice heart to heart after you left. He may need more than a little food."

John slunk away and retrieved another bowl of grey porridge and his medical bag. This was not how he wanted to spend his free time, and he was not looking forward to seeing the man again. He had only just managed to convince himself that he had not betrayed his country by talking to him.

Taking a deep breath, he strode to the tent that held the man_. Haus_, John remembered the man's name, _Sherlock Haus._

Standing before the door of the tent, Bill immediately flashed him another one of his trademark grins as he saw John approach. John figured the scowl on his face was telling his friend the entire situation without words. Bill waggled his eyebrows suggestively as he held the tent flap open for him, and John took the opportunity to give him a swift kick in the shin. He stepped inside the tent and felt the whoosh of air as the flap came down behind him.

The prisoner was lying on his side on the cot, back toward the entrance. His hands were still bound behind him, and John was sure the position was uncomfortable, since his one hand was white from lack of circulation.

"Hello," John announced himself awkwardly, but he received no reaction from the man. He just lay on his side, trying to ignore him, John supposed. John clasped his shoulder and turned him so he was facing him. The man jumped and fumbled with his arms before realizing they were still tied. John helped him sit up. "It's me again," He said reluctantly. He could feel the man's eyes staring him down from behind the blindfold. Even though he knew the man couldn't see him, John could still feel the intensity of his gaze, and uncomfortably fidgeted. It was then that John noticed the dark bruise running underneath the blindfold and peeping from beneath it on the bridge of the man's nose_. So that was what Leese meant_, John thought.

Reaching up behind the nape of the man's neck, he undid the gag, once against revealing the man's cupid bow lips and slender jawline.

"Brought you breakfast," John remarked as he scooped up a spoonful of the grey slop and brought it to the man's mouth. As soon as the food was under his nose, he twisted away.

"What the hell is that?" he spat, wrinkling his nose up at it.

"Breakfast," John repeated, and shoved the spoon closer to his face. There was only so much room available for the man to retreat back into.

"I am _not_ eating that."

"Well you'll have to suffer through it just like the rest of it," John said, thinking of what Bill had told him earlier.

"Absolutely not! It's been reused at least three.." the man paused and took a sniff, "…no, four times, the mixture to water ratio is absurd, and there's a hair in it."

John's jaw fell open, and he looked back to the spoon. Sure enough a black hair sat in the sludge. John suddenly felt queasy again as he picked it out. But there was no way the man could've seen that with the blindfold on. Looking back to the man, he waved his hand in front of his face, but the prisoner gave no sign that he had noticed. Genuinely surprised and confused, John sat back on his heels.

"How did you..."

Without missing a beat, the man launched himself into explanation,

"The spoon made a very audible squelching sound as you lifted it from the bowl, which means the water ratio is too low and that oatmeal you're about to feed me is thicker than paste. Within those fantastic odours I can smell the distinct essence from a standard issue hair-gel, the only reason it's presence is there must be because there's a hair present and due to the fact I can even smell the gel it at all means the gel itself is as thick as the oatmeal, and also leaves me to conclude that because your cook wears such copious amounts of gel in his hair he doesn't wear a hairnet. That's unsanitary. The mix is at least four days old considering that it takes at least forty-eight hours for the bacteria inside of it to incubate and produce that specific odour, and that's probably bad since I could smell how vile it was when he began cooking it this morn-"

John took this opportunity to shove the spoon of porridge into the man's mouth, and smiled as he gagged on the putrid substance.

"Like I said, everyone suffers."

The man's mouth set in a hard line as he finished spitting out the slop. John heard him mutter under his breath, "…it was porridge… I always get something wrong…"

John set the bowl down, "Alright, I won't force it on you." Suddenly he felt cheated, as it had been forced upon him earlier. Flicking away the though he pent his fingers and stared at the man before saying, "That was…incredible actually."

He watched as the man's mouth softened in surprise at the compliment.

"How did you even do that? I mean, you can't even see and you described the porridge perfectly." John asked, still amazed.

"It…well, I've done that for a while now."

John saw how the tables had turned. It was the man who was feeling uncomfortable. He decided to probe further.

"What did you do before the war…Sherlock," he asked, testing the name. It felt weird in his mouth.

"I was a detective, of sorts."

"Did that help you get into being an officer then?"

"Yes. They put me in intelligence and…" Sherlock cut himself off, realizing he had said too much.

"I see, that's kind of like me then," John said, trying to relieve the sudden tension. He turned his gaze to Sherlock's eye. If John couldn't get him to eat, he might as well tackle the next challenge. He reached up to undo the blindfold, and noticed how Sherlock sat perfectly still. John decided to ease him by continuing. "I was lucky that they made me a medic. Believe it or not, a lot of people with the training become foot soldiers. Back home I was a…"

The blindfold slipped from Sherlock's face, revealing intense, sharp blue eyes.

"…doctor." John stared, transfixed by clarity of Sherlock's eyes. They were a bright, pale blue, like winter skies, and seemed to emanate their own, foreign light. Compared to their colour, everything else seemed gray and dull. John felt them pierce right through him, stripping away the layers of armour, drawing him in and staring at his raw form. They were the kind of eyes that could unravel his life story with just a simple gaze, hard and concise, like nothing could escape them. But beneath the coldness John felt he could see something stranger, like a subtle innocence…

Pulling his eyes away from Sherlock, he felt a chill race through his core, like he had just stepped from an ice shower into warm air. John examined the bruise, noticing a small cut running through Sherlock's eyebrow, and he focused on that instead. Pulling out a cloth and peroxide, he cleaned the dirt and sweat away. But even as he tried to concentrate on the cut, John still found his eyes wandering down. Sherlock wasn't looking at him anymore, instead fixing his gaze on one of the tent's corners, but John still felt an odd sense of wonder as he looked at those clear, blue orbs. Sherlock suddenly flicked his gaze up to John, noticing his staring.

"So," John started, feeling the need to cover up his actions, "I was under the impression that most Germans would rather die than surrender."

Sherlock let out a slight scoff, "I'm not sure if that's true, but if it helps, I'm not fully German."

"Oh, do you mind if I ask how?"

"My mother was from England."

"That explains why you speak English so well."

"She insisted on it. So since I'm part English, I decided to surrender." John let out a small laugh at this remark.

"So, if you surrendered, why is Leese giving you such a hard time?" John asked, giving the bruise a final wipe before sitting back down to face Sherlock.

"I won't tell him anything."

"But you surrendered, so why does it matter?"

Sherlock merely looked at him with pity, as if John should understand why Sherlock refused to talk. But John didn't understand. "Is it a loyalty issue?" John asked.

"No. I feel no loyalty toward the Nazi's," Sherlock confessed. "I didn't ask to be part of this war; I was dragged into it because of my …talents."

"Seems to be a common story," John said softly, tipping his head back to stare at the canvas roof of the tent. He thought for a long moment, about himself, about Sherlock. While his initial apprehension about Sherlock had dissipated, he still felt that he was being lured into pitying this man. And John knew it was working.

"That still doesn't explain why you won't talk." John said suddenly, snapping his head back to look at Sherlock for any hint that he was lying.

"I want to get out of this alive." Sherlock answered, turning his eyes toward the tent wall, as if he was aware of some unknown figure lurking outside it.

_I want to know… that you lived._ His father's voice echoed back to him.

Suddenly, the swell of a trumpet cut through the air. It was nearly briefing time. John stood and retrieved the blindfold and gag. He tied the gag first, but paused just for a moment before replacing the blindfold to cast one last glance into his eyes. They seemed…sad.

Like the eyes of a man who had not yet lived.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

**Reviews are always wonderful :)**

**London Blitz -** 57 consecutive days of bombs being dropped on London by the Axis. Considered a Strategic Failure.


	3. Chapter 3

**Haus of War**

Chapter 3

_Warning: The beginning is a bit full of military talk, but it** is** important to the storyline. Try your best to follow, as I know it was hell to try and organize and write all this information ;)._

.

Pachino, July 11th, 1943.

.

Sometimes John was grateful toward his shorter stature, not that he would admit it though. He was late to the briefing, but thankfully was able slip in unnoticed at the back. Yet even though the briefing was attended only by men with a lieutenant's rank or higher, the area remained packed with officers. Some he could pick out of the crowd, but others he guessed had traveled from their positions farther down the coast by car to attend. John thought that was strange, since a gathering of the officers usually meant a person of high authority had come to brief them. And usually these visits had been well for-warned. Unfortunately, he could not see over the top of the heads of the officers in front of him, so he was unable to view who the foreign voice, which bellowed across the silent space, belonged to.

"…to the south of us, the fifty-first division will push northeast to capture Palazzolo and then Vizzini. Divisions under the XIII Corps will then move further inland to meet us before the assault on Catania. They will hold our flank until we arrive."

The sea of men parted momentarily and John caught the first glimpse of the man who was briefing them. He was surprised to see that not one, but two high ranking officers stood erect before them. The first he recognized as Lt General Montgomery, the commander of the Eighth Army, which John's division was a part of. He stood silent and at full attention off to the side, red-faced and sweating in the humid Sicilian sun. The man speaking, however, he did not know. As displayed by his insignia, the man was a General. He was tall, and a thick black mustache adorned his upper lip. More impressive than the moustache, however, was the plethora of colours splayed across his breast. He stood with a rigid authority, heels glued together and chest puffed like a bird displaying his plumage.

"Sorry, who is he?" John overheard a lieutenant in front of his ask the officer beside him.

"That's General Alexander," the other whispered back in a distinct, southern American accent. Obviously John wasn't the only person who did not recognise the man. His ears perked as General Alexander delivered his squadrons orders next.

"The XXX Corps are to flank the Seventh Army's push into Augusta, and are assigned to capture three airfields to prevent reserves from moving eastward against them. The fields you will be engaging are Olivo and Cosimo. After you've captured these points, you are to link with the First Canadian Infantry to take the Biscari airfield and move forward to assist the Seventh Army in the capture of Augusta. I expect these divisions to regroup on the fringe of Augusta by the 13th of July."

John's felt his jaw go slack, and whatever the General said after that did not reach his ears. For a moment he had to review what had just been said to make sure he had heard everything correctly. An overwhelming sense of dread washed over him, as he was sure it had washed over the other officers in his squadron in attendance. This General expected a division of a couple hundred men, still weary from last evening's encounter, to clear three airfields and be ready to engage another full scale invasion within the span of one day. It was impossible. John knew that even if they managed to clear even two of the airfields, the squadron would be wiped out by the third. He had heard of such cases before, strategic failures, where whole armies were sent to their deaths in order to serve some greater purpose, but even knowing this, the idea brought no comfort to him. John looked to find Lt General Leese, hoping to see some confirmation that this was all a sick joke. He found Leese standing in front of the crowd with the other commanders, his face ashen. John felt his gut drop to his toes.

"The Seventh Army is to move directly into and capture Augusta. There you will most likely meet heavy resistance by the Axis, so prepare yourselves. We have gathered the strongest forces, so I expect a smooth operation. After Augusta is taken, the reassembled battalions will move to take Catania, and force the Axis out of Sicily. All personal are expected to be marching to your points by noon tomorrow. You are dismissed."

Distantly, John heard the guillotine snap down.

* * *

><p>Augusta, July 11th, 1943.<p>

.

Much like their enemies south of them, the SS and Italian forces had also gathered under the sweltering heat and prepared to receive their own briefing.

A sleek black car pulled into the camp, which lay on the outskirts of Augusta; the shadows of the city barely reaching them as the sun rose behind the mountainous hills. The car was nondescript, save for the small, double bolt insignia printed on its side: the mark of the Gestapo. Inside sat two individuals, sheltered from the rising humidity.

"As you see, our situation is not as dire as it is made out to be," the first spoke in thick, rolling German. His auburn hair was smoothed back against the nape of his neck, grey eyes fixed on the men wandering about and moving supplies outside their steel carriage. The same double bolt insignia on the car adorned his collar. "Provisions still remain uninterrupted."

"Please, Sebastian," the second answered him. His sing-song voice drawled, and his dull and despondent eyes glued themselves somewhere past Sebastian's face. He took pleasure in how his glare, which seemed to be looking right through him, affected the other man, who fidgeted uncomfortably underneath it. He allowed a small smirk to play upon his lips. "If they don't have a good reason for pulling me from my work at the concentration camp," he continued, resting his cheek boyishly on his fist, "I'll make each and every one of them into shoes."

The vehicle pulled to a halt, and both men exited on to the dusty, parched ground. Sebastian led his companion through the maze of tents and supply dumps to a small, mortar enclosure. As they stepped inside, its inhabitants rose from their seats and saluted as a sign of respect. However the man, rather than feeling esteemed, was quite insulted by their actions. He preferred to see his subordinates beneath him, writhing in the dirt like worms.

The room was cool thanks to the concrete walls, but sparsely furnished, save for a table rimmed with wooden chairs. On the wall hung a large Sicilian map, strung like a Christmas tree with red bomb lines, highlighted supply routes and other eye-catching intricacies. It was a beautiful sight, artful in its depiction of tireless planning and coordination, a web that held so much more than the spider at its center. The man couldn't help but gaze lovingly at it, like it was his oldest and most favourite treasure.

"—Brooke." He clued in that a small, seedy Italian officer was speaking to him, pulling him from his reverie. He cast a venomous glance at the man, and his keen eyes saw the officer shrink back in fear.

"So you lost Pachino to the enemies," Richart Brooke said, not wishing to hear what he already knew. He watched the man's eyes dart around the room like a cornered animal, and briefly he wondered what his cowardly entrails looked like.

"We have suspicions that the enemy forces will—"

"Pachino, Pachino," Brooke interrupted, rolling the word around in his mouth, tasting it. "I had two of my intelligence officers stationed there…where are they?"

The man looked to his companions, but none of them offered Brooke their words. He swallowed, and tentatively said, "We're still waiting for a casualty report on one. The other returned with our forces late last night."

"Shoot him."

A silence overtook the room.

"But sir…"

"_Shut up_. Unlike you Italians," Brooke spat, "the Gestapo are not cowards. I prefer to have that reputation remain untarnished. Shoot him."

Another silence fell upon them all and Brooke couldn't help but ponder on how annoying that was.

"Returning to the matter at hand, sir," Sebastian spoke up; his calm demeanor cut through the tension that slowly drowned everyone in the room.

"Ah yes! The enemy advance," Brooke exclaimed, clapping his hands together as his features brightened considerably. "I love a good strategizing meet. Oils the rusty gears up there," and tapped his forehead once.

"Right," said the Italian man, looking unsure of whether he should laugh or cry, or an ugly combination of both. "As I was saying, sir, we have our suspicions that the Allied forces that landed on the coast yesterday will try to flank us via route 194."

Brooke once again laid eyes upon the map, moving closer to study the lines that crisscrossed its embossed, glossy surface. Oh how he wished to touch it, to nitpick and change the little lines so that they fit his grand view: a precise, fortified and impregnable defence.

"And who is now in command of this operation?" he asked.

"General Harold Alexander."

"Oh, he's my least favourite," Brooke whined, rolling his eyes as he slunk away from the map. "Really, he's no fun at all, so predictable." He sat in one of the chairs, a sudden sulk overtaking him. "You don't need to worry about him trying to flank the city, he's much too dull to try something like that. Always was compulsive," Brooke sneered; it was all too easy for him, predicting the enemy's movements. They left their mark like a trail of breadcrumbs, and all he had to do was follow it. "He'll most likely send his strongest forces scrambling up to us in a full frontal attack. The fool, he obviously has no idea that the airfields to the south will destroy his army before they even touch the city."

"What if he sends an attack on the airfields simultaneously?" Sebastian asked. Brooke thought on that for a moment, before shaking his head.

"No, if Alexander sends his best forces straight to our door, which I know he will, he'll send only a handful of men, the weakest and most useless, to try and take the airfields. The most that would do is delay our forces in the south. He knows capturing the airfields is impossible with that little manpower, he'd only attack them to buy time. He'll concentrate all his power on one move. I daresay the man is becoming desperate," Brooke mused.

"So we are to hold fort and have the airfields flank Alexander's forces then, sir?" the Italian squeaked.

"Well, that's assuming they aren't delayed too long by the vermin Alexander might send. You should be ready to defend." Brooke stated. "If that's all gentlemen, I do have a date in Catania."

Brooke rose from the chair when no one else spoke up. The men saluted once more, but he merely waved a hand at them. "Come Seb," he sang, and exited the enclosure with Sebastian at his side. They walked through the camp once more, the sun beating down mercilessly as the air warped and swam in the noon light. Reaching the car, Brooke slid inside, refreshed by the little shade it provided. Sebastian made a move to enter as well, but he quickly shut the door and spoke to him from the open window.

"Ah-ah," he tut as Sebastian withdrew momentarily, confusion flitting across his features. "I need you to stay here."

"Why?"

"Keep an eye on them," Brooke said, ignoring that Sebastian had not addressed him as 'sir'. "Make sure they follow the plan."

Sebastian sighed and leaned back on his heels, his eyebrows raised slightly as he gave Brooke a very condescending look.

"Oh don't pout, it's only for a few days," Brooke hummed. He hated when Sebastian gave him that look. "Besides," he said more solemnly, hoping to sweeten the deal, "I'd like you to personally deal with our little coward who dared to return."

Brooke handed Sebastian's bag to him through the window before he nodded to the driver. The car engine purred and revved as it drove away, leaving Sebastian's staring face in the rear-view mirror.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

"I told you, John, there is nothing I can do about the matter! It's been designed and approved by people higher than me, and I cannot object without being court martialed."

"And that's worse than death?"

It was noon when the fierce argument had broken out inside Lt. General Leese's tent. A couple soldiers had stood idly as they gawked at the hollering that resonated from the thin tent. Bill was among them, having finished his guard over the prisoner. Arguments were not foreign in the camp, even ones that flared and sparked as that one currently did. What was more concerning to Bill was that John was involved, and John never involved himself in issues that were not of dire importance.

"You're lucky I don't have_ you_ court martialed for defying a superior."

"We're not talking about rebellion! There are hundreds of lives, yours and mine included, that are just going to be tossed away like rubbish," John seethed. "And for what purpose is that? So we can die in disgrace as the Americans move into glory?"

_I cannot bear to see your life be wasted on the battlefield,_ his father's voice echoed in his ears.

Leese pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, dislodging the small circle spectacles that rested upon his nose. "What would you have me do John? Even if I did confront Alexander on his tactics, what would I have to offer as an alternative? Should we just leave our flank open and be surrounded because we could not bear to have a few casualties? Because we are too scared to make such sacrifices as many have before us? Even if the outcome is most certainly grim, we must try anyway. It is unfair, I know, but roles must be played, no matter how ghastly they are. And that is what it means to serve your country, by whatever means it calls you to serve."

John's shoulders slumped in defeat. It _was_ unfair, so unfair.

A moment of silence enveloped them, only to be broken by Leese's long sigh. Now that the storm has quelled, Leese tried to change the subject.

"Listen, about that prisoner… A camp is planned to be set up if… _after_ we take Biscari. Since he'll have to be travelling with us, I'm putting him under your full care until then. I've heard you're able to get him to talk a little, and maybe that's a good thing. Information like that is always valuable. Has he said anything that might be of any importance?"

John thought back to Sherlock, still confined to his makeshift prison. He thought of those clear, blue eyes, and the childlike glint of ignorance he saw in them. Of all the things he and Sherlock had briefly chatted about, nothing stood out as being of any use to his current situation. It was just friendly talk, lonely talk.

"No, nothing," John answered after a moment.

"Well, try to eat something and get some rest, both of you. I'll brief the men on the situation. We leave at dawn tomorrow."

As John exited the tent, Bill approached him. "I think the whole camp heard you two going at it," he joked cautiously, but John merely brushed him off. Bill sensed his dampened mood, and wisely backed off his lightheartedness. Instead he took to walking with him.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Bill asked.

"I don't know how I would. It's a bit complicated."

"Well, come back to my tent for a few minutes, maybe I can cheer you up."

John smiled weakly, "Think so, eh?"

After a short walk, Bill pulled him into his tent, and they sat on the floor rather than the cots. The light tinged the inside of the tent with a dim green, and the smell was musty, heavy with sleep. His tent-mates were out, and John sat with eyes downcast as Bill searched for something in the corner. After a few moments, he pulled out two objects with triumph. John looked up to the object set in front of him.

"Well, that certainly does cheer me up a bit," He remarked.

Bill opened the metal cap of the glass beer bottle, relishing the fizzing noise as the cap leapt off and tumbled somewhere beneath the beds. "I knew it would," he smiled.

"Where on earth did you get these?" John marveled as he watched the bubbles slide up the glass bottle, the heavy smell filling the stuffy air. Slowly he took a sip of the warm drink, as if afraid it might vanish into thin air.

"One of my tent-mates went into town this morning. He found a microbrewery and was able to sneak a few bottles back. It's Italian, mind you, so just enjoy it for what it is. Oh, and don't mention it to anyone."

"Thanks," John said as he took another swig. He couldn't remember the last time he had sat down for a beer.

"No problem. Though I must say, this isn't an easy thing to find, so in return tell me- what's troubling you John?"

John thought for a moment before answering, "What are your thoughts on dying for your country?"

"Hey, you can't answer a question with a question," Bill remarked.

"I know, but it might help answer it."

Bill took a long swig of beer before setting it back down. Clasping his hands under his chin, he looked John straight in the eyes and said, "When you're called to arms, you must be prepared to die. You can try to survive, try to cling to life, but death eventually gets all of us. You can't go believing that you always have more time, because you can slip and fall a second later. I think dying for my country is a more honourable option than most."

"I thought as much," John sighed. He finished his beer in one, long mouthful and stood to leave.

"We will be remembered, John. Keep that in mind."

* * *

><p>John wrote more in his journal than he ever had previously. He filled pages and pages with his tumultuous thoughts, torrents of questions, trying to find some sort of philosophical reason why he should allow this to happen to him. Was he being selfish with his incessant self-preservation? Did he have an overzealous will to live that others did not share? He had never asked to be part of this war; it had been forced upon him, just as this death sentence had. The excitation of battle dimmed when one knew it was hopeless, but he couldn't hide from it. He had spent years building up his character, becoming brave and steady, so why now was this imminent threat to his life shocking to him? He knew war, he knew fear, and even he himself had decided whether a man should be saved or not. In a panic he realized that he was no different from his superiors, he had taken on the role of the reaper numerous times before. But that was different, he reasoned, those men were already dying. Now it was perfectly healthy men sent to slaughter.<p>

He had been a rock to other men in the field, resilient, strong. To show cowardice now was shameful. But to resolve to accept his fate raged against his entire being.

When he found that he could finally write no more, dusk had fallen, and the smells of the canteen filled the camp. He had not eaten much since morning, and his stomach twisted and churned, but not from hunger. Dimly he remembered that Sherlock too had to be looked after. On the eve of his demise he was entrusted to preserve the life of another, he thought bitterly, but instantly felt shamed. No, he couldn't blame him. Sherlock was very much in a situation like John himself. His life was in someone else's hands now, and should it be decided, it would be snuffed out.

Quitting his tent with a small bag slung over his shoulder, he headed to grab two plates from the canteen. The meal looked a bit more appetising tonight, but looks could always be deceiving. As he passed the lines of soldiers eating- some their last meal- he caught sight of Bill. His face seemed pale and his movements sluggish. John figured that the rest of the men had finally been briefed. Bill looked up from picking at his meal, colour returning to his cheeks as he waved John over. John simply raised his hand in decline, hoping Bill had seen the two plates and understood. He made a promise to himself that he would walk with Bill on their way to the airfields tomorrow.

He once again made the inured trek to the tent that held Sherlock, nodding to the bored looking sentries as he passed between them. They broke the conversation they had to admit him, immediately resuming after John had disappeared inside.

Sherlock was sitting upright this time, and John noticed how he stopped wiggling his feet when he entered. Routinely, he took off Sherlock's gag.

"Hello Captain Watson," he greeted in his deep, rich voice, but John noticed how it was strained.

"Good guess," John scoffed as he lifted away the blindfold, once again feeling the odd, electric sensation as Sherlock's steely eyes pierced through him. They glistened with pain. "I should check your ribs," he stated, and while a look of discomfort crossed Sherlock's face, he did not object. Slowly he lifted Sherlock's shirt, noticing how he winced, and unwound the bandages that covered his chest, fiercely aware of Sherlock's eyes boring into the back of his skull as he did. He probed the fracture lightly, and Sherlock let out a small hiss.

"You weren't in that much agony this morning," he said as he noticed the inflammation around the dark bruise.

"Pain is just a bodily function, a response to a situation. It's merely a nuisance which I can _usually_ ignore," Sherlock sucked in another breath of air as John touched the spot again.

"Yeah, but broken ribs _usually_ hurt like hell." John smiled, trying not to laugh at how ridiculous this man was.

"I don't see how this is amus-ahahh!"

"You should be lying down, it would be more comfortable." He was a bit concerned about the inflammation around the wound. Slowly, John reached up his arm to lay the underside of his wrist against Sherlock's forehead, his skin prickling into gooseflesh as Sherlock's breath ticked his forearm. His head was warm, but not quite feverish.

"Besides, how does one go about ignoring a broken rib?" he asked after gauging Sherlock's temperature. He began to rewrap his chest.

"Usually I occupy myself, but it's so boring here. I can't stand being so…stagnant. I feel like my brain is ripping itself apart. I even lowered myself to listening on the guards' conversation, but even that makes me want to dash my brains out."

John hoped to God that the sentries weren't discussing military plans outside a prisoner's tent. He'd flay them.

"I mean," Sherlock continued, "It's obvious that this man by the name 'Irving' doesn't actually exist, and an American is the one blacking out all their letters. They haven't noticed the double signature or the tomato stains yet …" Sherlock suddenly stopped and doubled over. John, who had no idea what on earth the man was talking about, had accidentally jabbed his thumb into Sherlock's ribs as he wrapped them.

"Sorry!" he exclaimed, and noticed how a small red spot began to seep into the cotton gauze. "I… think I found the tomato stains."

Sherlock breathed a short, huffy laugh. "Glad someone sees it."

John sat back on his heels, loosing himself in thought for a moment before turning to rummage around his bag. He pulled out a small, labeled botte. The painkillers again, only four tablets showed through the tinted glass. He felt as though it didn't matter who they were used on anymore. Shaking out one of tablets into his palm, he grabbed his flask of water and turned to Sherlock.

"Here, this will help."

"10mg of morphine." He said, looking at the small white pill, "Not to sound ungrateful, but I'd raise it to twenty. I've…built up a little resistance."

John fetched another pill, not really caring about their value anymore. He put them in Sherlock's mouth and gave him a drink of water to wash it down.

"You should probably eat something with that, I brought dinner anyways." John took a bite out of what he guessed where potatoes before he offered Sherlock a spoonful from the other plate.

"No."

"Come on, you haven't eaten anything since you got here yesterday."

"I'm alright for another few days, really." John nearly choked.

"Days? How often do you eat?"

Sherlock just looked to the ceiling as the drug began to take effect. His breathing became less laboured, and his tense shoulders relaxed.

"Hey, you're not going to get all giddy on me, are you?"

"No, this is a fairly low dose, but it is helping. Thank you Captain Watson." John decided that his military title sounded too awkward coming from Sherlock.

"John. My name is John."

Sherlock returned his gaze to him but said nothing, just watched him eat, as if it was the most fascinating thing he'd seen all day. It probably was. For a few minutes they just sat silent in each other's company, and John was quick to notice that it didn't feel strange or uncomfortable. It felt almost as if he could relax.

"What's troubling you?"

"What?" John asked, looking up from his meal.

"You're quiet. This morning you were eager to engage in conversation, but now you're quiet."

"Oh, it's nothing really."

"There are graphite marks on the side of your palm, and your thumb and index fingers are indented, meaning you've been holding a pencil for a while. The depth of the indents means you've been gripping it hard, from either tension or excitement. I can't see you as an artist, which means you've been writing a lot. And you wouldn't write so much unless it was a detailed letter or journal where much needed to be said. You also have the slight scent of alcohol on your breath, and that is a very hard thing to find on the battlefield, let alone on Sicily itself. So what is so important that you would need a drink, certainly not a celebration judging from your proneness to slip into silence? And all that screams that 'nothing really' is happening." Sherlock inhaled and shifted slightly. "So, John, what's troubling you?"

John briefly wondered if Sherlock had been given a few good smacks before and still not had learned to shut up. Maybe he was a spoiled child. At first he decided not to answer him, as that would be giving away military movement information. However he could tell him one thing.

"We're moving you to a camp."

"There are no Allied prisoner of war camps, you only just landed here yesterday. So, who have you been ordered to invade John?"

"Damnit." John was beginning to feel annoyed.

Sherlock smirked. "Obviously not here, since you said 'moving,' and obviously you're coming with me as you said 'we're'. Plus why would you be upset about me? You're quiet because this brings your own life into concern."

John gave Sherlock and exasperated look. "I can't tell you that."

"Why, do you think I'll run off and tattle on you to the Nazi's?"

"Yes."

Sherlock sighed, lowering his head to his chest. "John, I want to make it clear that I never want to go back to that place. I told you earlier: I want to live."

"Don't we all." John roughly slammed down his plate and rose to leave the tent.

"John, wait! John!" Sherlock called after him, but it fell on deaf ears. "Listen, I can help you."

"Can you now?" John whirled around, suddenly furious, chest heaving. "What does it matter? Tomorrow I'll be dead, you probably will be too. You think you can stop that?"

"You're forgetting who I am." Sherlock said, a certain power leeching into his voice, commanding John to listen. "If you were to die tomorrow, so be it. But have you even lost the will to try and live?"

"No," John breathed heavily, trying to control his flaring anger. Trying to make sense of all the confusion, and the submission he was subject to. "No I want to live, more than any of the men out there who've accepted this as gospel."

"Then that makes two of us."

John looked Sherlock in the eyes, and there was no mistaking the fire that had sprung to life in them.

"I can help you John Watson. I can help you and I escape this miserable place. I can win this war. You want to live? Well here's your chance."

John stood rigid. Yes, he did want out. Yes, he did want to escape. Yes, he did want to live.

"Alright. I'm listening."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>

I'm hoping some of you catch the reference. It's one of my favourite books, which also happened in WW2 Italy.

It should be obvious who Richart Brooke is. Sorry, I didn't leave much to the imagination.

Actually, I must thank **soror noctis** for bringing up the Gestapo. While I've already planned out Mycroft's part in this story, I was initially unsure of where I would put Moriarty and Sebastian. Originally they were simply going to be Nazi's in the Hermann Goering Division, but they fit the Gestapo so much better.

Also, thanks for all the faves and watches! Those as well as reviews are really encouraging! Happy Easter everyone!


	4. Chapter 4

Haus of War

Chapter 4

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John flitted through the camp, his leather journal tucked under one arm. He tried to keep to the perimeter of the camp, ducking behind tents to avoid confrontation with other soldiers. He walked slowly, taking the longest route possible back to the tent that held Sherlock. The rocky soil crunched under his heavy boots, and the humid air sunk into his clothing like oil. John's keen eyes scanned the wild olive and cypress trees that lined the beach, watching for movement or light, but only the wind rustled the branches. Satisfied by his brief walk, he made a beeline back to the POW tent and slipped inside.

"Have you got it?" a husky voice greeted him.

John held up the journal in confirmation.

"And the area?"

"Clear. No one is out there Sherlock. I checked the treeline and the tents around this one too, all empty. Hell I think the sentries have gotten bored and wandered off."

"Can't be too careful," he said with a slight smirk.

"Should I be concerned by your paranoia?"

"Maybe one day, but what I'm about to tell you is more important."

John rested his hands on his hips, looking around uneasily and shifting from foot to foot before saying, "I'm going to get in so much shit for this. Are you absolutely sure you know what you're doing?"

"Please," Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes to the corner, "you've seen what I can deduce. How hard would it be to out-manoeuver an army I know inside and out?"

"Hopefully not too hard."

John pulled a pencil from behind his ear and unzipped the journal. Sitting on the floor and resting the book between his crossed legs, he flipped through the pages to a fresh one, but then changed his mind and turned to the very last page of the book. There the information was less likely to be found by snoops. Pressing the soft graphite to the page, he looked back up to Sherlock. Letting out a long breathe, he said, "I've never been much of a meddler, you know. Faith, trust, none of those ever came easily. And I must be totally crazy right now," he said more to himself than to Sherlock, "but I want you to know," he paused to let the words sink in and to come to terms with what he was about to do, "I trust you."

"What else do we have right now other than trust? Any man would be a fool to give his trust to someone else," Sherlock responded, his piercing eyes boring into John's, "but a wise man shares his trust. Whatever happens after this point, I trust you too, John. We'll both be alive on the other side of this fence."

John suddenly felt quite hot despite the shade the tent provided, and he curled his hand around the pencil before loosening it again. He had never experienced such a feeling: terror, surrender, uncertainty, and hope. He was relinquishing himself to fate, and it felt as if a heavy burden had been laid across his shoulders. "Alright," he breathed, gathering together his nerves, ready to take the first step before the plunge, "This is all I know so far…"

John spent the next handful of minutes divulging every bit of information he could remember from the briefing. He told Sherlock about the different armies stationed around the shores of Sicily, the general motive of Operation Husky, and all of the strategic points they were ordered to capture. All the while, Sherlock sat with clear interest, absorbing all of the information, his eyes darting to and fro as if cataloguing words, locations and dates. It was almost ethereal to watch him in his silent meditation, and John had to constantly refocus himself as to not become lost in the manifestation before him. John continued on talking about the plan to storm Augusta, and quickly fell silent after revealing his division's orders to capture the airfields. Strangely, despite the uncertainty inside him growing, the invisible burden upon his conscious seemed to lessen after his retelling.

Sherlock had now closed his eyes, and was leaning slightly back, head tilted to the roof. A few silent moments passed before, without opening his eyes, he state, "That's suicide."

John opened his mouth to respond, but the words seemed to die in his throat. Instead he pressed his fingers into his palm and waited.

"What did you write down?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

John frowned, he hadn't written down anything. Turning his gaze to the page, he was surprised to see that he had.

"Haus of War ..." he said slowly. There it was scrawled on the header of the page in thick, bold lettering. When had he written that?

Sherlock glowered slightly as he looked at the page, but quickly brushed it off. "Never mind."

"So what do you think about our situation then?" asked John as he turned to a fresh page.

"Your General, Alexander was it? He's got it all wrong. It's not just suicide for your squadron; this could ruin the whole operation."

"How so?"

"For starters, your General doesn't realise that the airfields in the south are the Nazis' strongest defence. While your squadron delays one, the other two will flank the inland advance. They wouldn't even reach the city."

"So what should we do?"

"How large is the Seventh Army?"

"Size?" John had to think for a moment. The Seventh U.S Army was at least five times larger than the Eighth Army. "I'd estimate 40,000 spread across the coast."

Sherlock sat processing this. "And they were to confront Augusta alone?"

"For the first wave, yes. Other divisions would be arriving over the next few days. Maybe an extra 4,000 men."

Another pause. "Alright, get your pencil ready and try to write down as much as you can." Sherlock watched John as he laid pencil to paper once more, and then looked up, ready.

"Augusta is stationed with 70,000 Italian and German troops who have heavy artillery. The base is fed by two supply routes, one coming in from the northwest and another from the west. These supply routes are Augusta's lifelines, but they are fairly unprotected because they're so low profile. It won't take many personnel to interrupt and stop the supplies to Augusta. You need to send out two squadrons to attack the routes 124 and 116, with the rest coming in waves, surrounding the city. They won't be expecting it. If you split the Eighth Army in two you can hold down both of the routes. The Seventh Army can take all three airfields at once. They have more than enough power to do that. With supplies and reserves cut off, the city will lose contact with their headquarters and will be weak. There your forces can converge, and Augusta would be taken in less than three days."

John wrote quickly, getting down as much information as possible. "We had no idea about the supply routes. Augusta is a coastal town, so we believed they were independent."

"And that mistake would've caused you the battle," Sherlock said with an air of finality.

"But only two squadrons? That's mad."

"Your squadron is small enough to move undetected. If the Axis in Augusta were to find out prematurely about you sabotaging their supplies, the airfields would deploy before the Seventh Army could arrive to stop them."

John looked over the notes. "It's risky…"

"But it will work. Right now, you're playing right into their hands. They knew that your forces would make a direct attack."

John sat in Sherlock's presence for a little while longer; evaluating the validity of everything he had been told. Was this enough to convince General Alexander to change his plans?

"Is there anything else you think worth mentioning, Sherlock?"

Silence.

John stood from the floor, watching Sherlock's gaze follow him up. He didn't make a move to blind or gag him again, instead he said, "I can be put to death if they ever find out about this. You as well."

"We're dead if we don't try. Not the first time I've faced that dilemma," Sherlock said quietly, and was suddenly distant, his eyes glazed as he remembered what John could only guess. But that darkness over him soon passed, and he continued on, "I won't tell them that you gave me the information. In fact, I'll give you some other pointless information so it seems random."

"And if this works, well, what do you want out of it?" John asked. Surely Sherlock had some deeper plan for himself.

"If they believe you, have them send me to a camp. You said they'd be setting one up in Biscari, right? You won't need my help once Augusta is taken. With the southern coast completely captured by the Allies, the Germans will have no choice but to retreat. Then it's just a matter of pushing them out."

"Are you sure that's what you want?" John asked. A pang of sadness hit him as he realised that this might be the last time he saw Sherlock.

"The farther away I can get from the Axis and this stupid war the better."

"Alright, I'll find a way to get you out," John said as he turned to leave, his eyes locking a bit longer on the bound and bruised man on the bed. Maybe in a different world, he couldn't help think to himself, he would have liked to know the man just a bit better.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

The throng of uniformed men couldn't part fast enough for John as he pushed his way toward Lt. General Leese's quarters. He had the journal tucked securely under his arm as he shouldered his way though, grunting out a few 'sorry's and 'excuse me's. John could just see the peak of Leese's tent above the moving bodies when he felt a sharp tug and the journal being ripped suddenly from its resting place in the crook of his elbow.

"So this is the fabled diary your tent-mates have been talking about," said a voice, and John whipped around, his heart dropping to his gut. In front of him a tall and lanky soldier stood. His black hair was slicked back, and his face was angular and pointed, like a mouse. He wore an American uniform, with the name 'Anderson' sewed in bright lettering on the breast pocket. He dangled the journal slightly above John's head, as if expecting him to jump for it.

"Soldier…!" John seethed, but his commanding voice (which despite his size was generally terrifying) that he usually dropped when pulling rank was interrupted as the American in front of him displayed his shoulder, which bore a golden oak leaf: the rank of a Major. John instantly clamped his mouth shut, his teeth grinding at the unforeseen set back.

Major Anderson cocked his eyebrow expectantly, and John hated himself as he forced his limbs to stand at attention and salute. He did, however, give the major the nastiest glare he could summon.

"That's better, Captain," Major Anderson nearly spat out as he paced in front of John. "At ease."

John did as he was commanded.

"I see you've just returned from the POW tent," Anderson said as he played with the zipper on John's journal, and John felt his heart beat faster. He cursed his bad luck. "Interesting you would bring this with you," Anderson continued, pulling at the tab and unzipping the cover. "I wonder what's really in here." Anderson looked over the brim of the book, searching his face, but John kept his features set in stone. He'd gone too far to break down in front of some ratty American officer now.

"Entry One, April 12th 1941," his cool voice read out as he scanned the page, "'the train ride seemed long, but we reached the docks in less than an hour…'"

"Permission to speak, sir," John ground out, trying to keep his voice level.

"Denied," Anderson snapped as he flipped a few pages further and continued. "Oh this looks interesting, 'November 24th, 1941. I lost one of my best medical personal and friend, Michael Stamford, in Tubrok today. It saddens me to know that I must continue on without his forever cheerful mood, which helped get me through the first invasion of North Africa.'"

John felt the heat of anger rise up in him, coupled with the stab of sadness. He felt his eyes sting; of course this prick would choose that entry to read out. He remembered Mike, and his shoulders began to tremble as he recalled the smile the dead man had worn upon his face. That was behind him now, he kept telling himself.

Anderson fanned the pages with his thumb, skipping through half the journal and landing on one of the most recent entries, "And look here, something on the prisoner too."

"Stop it," John spat out under his breath, his fists curling and shaking at his sides and his shoulders rising.

"'I treated the man, who sustained a few broken ribs and some bruising…' getting friendly were you?" Anderson continued on, completely ignoring him.

"Stop it…" John growled a little louder. His eyes roamed Anderson's body, wonder where it would hurt most if he struck.

"Here's the proverbial goldmine," Anderson exclaimed, "'He told me his name was…'"

Major Anderson didn't get to finish, as he soon found John's fist lodged in his mouth. They both tumbled to the ground, John's knuckles bleeding from where his skin had made contact with the Major's sharp, white teeth. He was on top of the Major now, his fist raised in the air preparing for a second strike when he felt a few pairs of strong arms wrap around his waist and hands, pulling him back and subduing his struggles quickly. His knees rested in the dirt, a thick hand pressed down on the back of his neck so that he could not raise his head, and his arms were pulled up into a chicken hold. He breathed heavily, like an angry bull seeing red, eyes locked on the Major, who was also being held back, rivets of blood streaming from his nose and staining the brightly embroidered name on his uniform.

"Stand down!" John heard Lt. General Leese's voice snap over the soldiers' murmuring. "What in God's name is going on here?"

John pivoted his eyes as best he could to see Leese shoving through the steadily growing crowd of soldiers, face red as he gazed upon the two officers on the ground covered in dust. He picked up the journal, which had flown from Anderson's hands when John lunged at him. His bulging eyes darted between the two, seething that such disorderly conduct had befallen his company. "Take the Major to the medics," he shouted, voice sharper than John had ever heard it, even in the midst of battle. "Captain, come with me immediately!"

The pressure on his neck and arms was released as John was allowed to stand. The crowd parted to clear a path as Leese stalked back to his tent, John following with eyes cast down, avoiding the stares of his fellow soldiers.

As soon as they entered the enclosure, Leese turned on him, letting loose his fury. "Have you not caused me enough trouble today Captain? I swear, if you put one more foot out of line before tomorrow's march I will shoot you dead for your insubordinate behaviour! This is completely unacceptable! I should strip you of your rank right here!"

John was sure that every soldier within a 20 meter radius could hear the Lt. Generals rage, and he felt a wave of humiliation wash over him, feeling like a child being scolded in front of his peers. "Understood, sir."

"Tell me what that display of idiocy was incurred by, and maybe I won't write you right back down to private," Leese snarled, assuming his full height.

"The Major was wrongfully using his rank to expose personal matters, sir."

"You mean this?" He held up the journal to John's face.

"Yes sir."

"Personal items such as this are to be kept to your bag inside your tent as to avoid such confrontations, as I'm sure you know."

"Yes sir."

"So how did it fall into the Major's hands?"

"He took it from me and began to read from it, sir."

"So you're both rotten scoundrels then," Leese grunted. "Why would the Major be interested in your journal, Captain?"

John sighed. This wasn't the way he wanted to make his pitch, but it seemed now was the only chance he was going to get. "The prisoner divulged some sensitive information. I wrote it down inside the journal and was headed to see you about it when the Major interrupted."

"And this information was too delicate to show to a superior other than me?"

"I believe so, sir," John said. This had gotten Leese's attention. "If I may do what I was originally going to sir, I can show you."

Leese looked him up and down, before shoving the book back into John's hand. "This had better be worth it."

John flipped to the back of the book, turning the page to the information he had quickly scrawled. He laid it down for Leese to see. "Out of all this other stuff, I thought this might interest you the most," he said as he read out the plan Sherlock devised. He talked about the supply routes, and made suggestions to make it seem that he hadn't given up the information he did to acquire what he had. Leese studied the page, his eyes lighting up as he too pieced together what Sherlock had wanted him to.

"This is…John this is incredible," Leese said, his anger having ebbed away. "How did you get all of this?"

John had to think for a moment. How did he get this information from Sherlock? He hadn't planned out what he would say to make his story convincing. "Well, I…" he stumbled, and Leese looked up from the page, suddenly very interested in his answer. "I…am a doctor. I know where to press both physically and psychologically to get answers," and for good measure he threw in, "I also know when someone is lying." John, mentally smacked himself. What if they interrogated Sherlock later? If their stories didn't match up then they were both busted.

Leese's eyebrows shot up, but he seemed to accept that as a viable answer. "Didn't take you for that type of person, Captain."

Relieved, John flashed a weak smile.

"I assume you know what this information means. This could change the whole battle plan."

"It could also change whether we live or die tomorrow, sir."

Leese's eyes remained locked on the page, drumming his fingers on the cover as he thought over the situation. John prayed to whatever god was listening that it would work.

"I think we should take this to General Alexander," Leese said grimly, closing the journal and tucking it close to his chest. "Come along, quickly."

John's face was radiant as he followed Leese out of the tent.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

Once they were granted an audience with General Alexander, all John had to do was confirm that the information was correct. The General sent out a few scouts to confirm the location of the routes, and for many hours John sat in his superiors' presence as they debated and revised the battle plan. It was nearly sunset, and the sky beginning to darken, when the scouts returned to camp.

"Well?" Alexander demanded curtly as three uniformed men entered the tent.

"The supply routes have been confirmed, one northwest at route 124 and another east at 116."

"And what were they carrying?" He asked, palms curled around the edge of the table.

"Heavy artillery and shells mainly. A few other truckloads with what we guessed were medical supplies and foods were among them. The convoy went on for miles, but most of the people present were civilians."

General Alexander rolled back on his heels, apparently making up his mind. "Go and fetch Lieutenant General Patton of the Seventh U.S Army and Lieutenant General Montgomery of the Eighth Army and whichever commanders they wish to bring. There's been a change of plans."

And so it was done. Slowly as the sky turned black and the stars began to shine, the Lieutenant Generals and their commanding officers began to file into the enclosure, taking their seats at the large table in its centre. Lt. General Patton entered last, and in tow was a sight that John had not wished to see so soon.

Major Anderson followed Patton in, his nose covered in white gauze and his left eye rimmed with black and purple bruising. He looked around and caught sight of John sitting with Leese, and threw him a sneer, which was marred by the current condition of his face. John couldn't help but allow himself a slight smile. After they had taken their seats, General Alexander began.

"After receiving a very untimely but very crucial piece of information, the plans that were laid out earlier this morning for tomorrows march have been revised." A few quiet murmurs rose up, but quickly died as Alexander continued. "They concern the movements of the Seventh and Eighth Armies, which is why I have assembled you here tonight. We have discovered the where-about of two supply routes which can land a heavy blow to our enemies in Augusta if dealt with properly. The changes apply as follows: The Eighth Army is to take the position of the Seventh, and advance to Augusta, while the Seventh Army is to engage the airfields in the south."

Cries of shock and outrage, mainly from the American side, arose as people began to debate among themselves.

"And what is the source of this information?" Lt. General Patton spoke up.

"In order to protect the identity of the source, that shall not be disclosed. I assure you that it has been checked thoroughly and confirmed to be true."

"I know exactly where it came from," Anderson stood, slamming his hands down on the table and staring at John. "Captain Watson seems to be in cahoots with our new and highly unwelcomed addition," he sneered. "How are we to trust that this isn't some trap for us all?"

John bristled, but Leese stood to oppose Major Anderson, "And that interaction has been approved by me, so you should have no quarrel with it."

"No quarrel?" another American officer spoke up, "This was to be our time of glory! We were going to storm Augusta and show the Axis who was really to be feared here!"

"You'd rather look glorious while your brothers-in-arms are being slaughtered behind you? The feeling wouldn't last very long, I can assure you!" said a British officer at the end of the table.

"Enough," Alexander boomed above the squabbling, and the room fell silent. "What I said is to be done shall be done. Patton, assemble your troops and brief them on the revised plan. You are to take the Cosimo, Olivio, and Biscari airfields. After that you are to establish a prisoner camp at Biscari, and we will send who we can capture down to you. If we can garner any more useful information like this from the prisoners, than it is a success whichever way it turns out."

Patton nodded, but it was clear that he was not pleased with the change.

"Montgomery, you are also to brief your troops, and have them ready to march to Augusta. The XXX Corps and the XXI corps are to deal with the supply routes before the rest come to help hold them down, then wait for the Seventh Army to join you in your advance. Is all clear?"

A loud and unified 'Yes sir,' filled the room.

"Then you are dismissed," General Alexander said, and the sound of many chairs scraping the gravely floor was deafening.

John was elated. He couldn't believe how well it had worked. No matter how serious he tried to appear, he couldn't wipe the grin off his face. Though he wasn't safe from death yet, he was certainly farther away from it.

He jumped as a voice said close to his ear, "Captain Watson, a word please?" John swiveled around and came face to face with the rows upon rows of medals pinned to General Alexander's chest. He quickly stood at attention and saluted, but Alexander just waved him off. "I understand that you are in charge of the prisoner?"

"Yes sir, well, perhaps not for much longer. I suppose he is to be transported to Biscari with the Seventh Army," John said suggestively.

"Actually I have something different in mind," said Alexander, examining his nail beds. "This prisoner has proved to be valuable, and I like to keep my cards close to my chest."

"Sir…"

"I want you to remain with the prisoner. He is to accompany you to the supply route, whereas I hope in that time you can get a little more out of him, since it seems you're good at it."

John once again felt his gut drop. He had promised Sherlock that he'd get him away from the Axis. This was only bringing him closer. "I'm not sure that's a good idea, sir. Isn't it better his if farther away from the frontline?"

"That is for me to decide, Captain," he said before his voice took a darker tone. "And if we find out that he is not as trustworthy as you make it, then upon your head be it. At least this way you can deal with him promptly." The statement left little to John's imagination.

"Now go back to your quarters and prepare." With that, he left, and John ushered himself out.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

John couldn't help but feel uneasy as he slipped through the cool night. He walked along the perimeter as he had done earlier, again browsing the treeline. He was nervous, especially about Anderson, who already knew too much about him and Sherlock. A gut feeling told him that he couldn't trust the Major, particularly after what he had said at the meeting. John crept through the rows of tents until he could see the one that held Sherlock. The area around was deserted, save for the two sentries that guarded him. John took some comfort in knowing that Sherlock was being protected, and after assuring himself that nothing would go wrong, he walked back to his tent.

On the way back he thought of what he would say to Sherlock when he went to collect him in the morning. Sherlock trusted him, and not only had John had failed to fill his part of the bargain, but he was also given the indirect order to kill Sherlock if John's trust in him was ill founded. He felt sick at the thought. He reasoned, however, that if Sherlock was to be moved to Biscari as he had wanted, he'd be closer to Anderson, and John didn't know which was more dangerous.

By the time he had reached his own tent, his tent mates were already asleep. Striking a match and lighting a small candle, he took the journal out of his pocket and found his pencil. He flipped to his last entry, preparing to make the next one before a thought crossed his mind. John closed the journal and then opened it again, but from the wrong side. He looked at the page- the very last one in the book- which read 'Haus of War'.

At first John had had no clue as to why he wrote that while talking to Sherlock, but now he was beginning to understand the subconscious gesture.

He he was starting a new story. A story that was only going to get much more dark and dangerous.

And underneath the title, he began to write about the day's events.

* * *

><p>.<p>

**Authors Note:**

So sorry for the delayed update, I've been frightfully busy. The reviews, favourites and watches have all been incredible though, and I thank you!

I know that the 'Anderson is a dick' stereotype is well worn, but let's face it, he is. Just in this story he's a 'Major' dick.

And again, I'm in no way imparting that Americans are arrogant glory-seekers. I'm just using what history has given me (which happens not to look so good on the American's side of things).

So now the story is really going to kick off! The buildup is done and we're back on the battle field next chapter!

Thanks again for reading!


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